Dance With Me
by albaKonst
Summary: One ball. Three sisters. Three entirely different experiences. A three-part drabble set during a ball held at Downton Abbey.
1. I Melt With You

I Melt With You

* * *

><p>Mary crept into the room from the servants' entrance. She snuck in quietly, self conscious and shy. On the outside she may be flamboyant, grandiose, but not really. And not tonight, although everyone present who did happen to glace at the delicate figure would see that she looked truly splendid, with her hair in a simple twist at the back of her head, and the deep red of her dress matching exactly the tone of her lips. She scanned the room at once, her dark eyes locating Matthew in the sea of suits and gowns around her. She drifted through the throngs of dancers and seemed to practically lift from the ground as the wave of colour swallowed her.<p>

It was a feeling she'd always liked. People assumed that because she was the oldest she enjoyed standing out – being disgustingly ostentatious. No, she left that to Edith and Sybil. She loved nothing more than to walk into the open country at night and look up at the moon, at the stars and at the positively enormous expanse of sky. It all seemed so big. It reminded her that she is nothing. However big her trials and tribulations seem at the time, there is nothing like being drowned by the sky or the fields or the dancers to remind you that, all in all, it doesn't really matter.

A foot in her path jerked her back into the room as she stumbled to keep her balance. Any of the onlookers would assume she was as happy and joyful as the rest of the aristocracy present there tonight, their wealth hanging off them in swathes of silk and satin, but Matthew, now in front of Mary, knew different. They had known each other a while now, and suffice to say a lot had passed between them. He looked into her eyes and saw her reluctance. A want to be curled up on a bench in the garden or one of the secret cubby holes around the extensive Manor House which cradled them. Anything but here; being an object of scrutiny to be peered at and pored over.

They see each other. They see their respective demeanours, their expectations for a night of small talk and politeness. They nearly see what each other is thinking. Nearly.

No greetings necessary.

They stand next to each other for a while, looking at the dancers twist and twirl and entwine to the music.

No pleasantries required.

"What do you think?" Mary queried, breaking the silence between them.

"Of the night sky? I think I should learn more constellations. Of the music? I think there should be more flutes and less violas. Of the dances? I think there are too many formalities. Of politics? I think it's all unjust but what the devil can be done. Or did you have a particular topic in mind?"

"No. Not really. I'm just deathly bored."

"Dance with me then," It was a slim chance and he knew it, but he couldn't pass up on tonight's opportunity.

"No fear! I should trip over both of our feet and we'd land in an ungainly heap in the middle of the floor. Better still, spare us both the embarrassment."

"I think you are too harsh on yourself."

"I think you compliment me too much. What happened to Mr 'I like a good argument'?"

"He eloped with my wishes of marriage. You were awful cruel, you know. I still hurt from that. This face just here? It's just for show. I leave my real one in a jar by the door for when I am alone and no one has to see it." There. She knew he was in there somewhere.

"You mean the handsome face I see tonight is just a mask? I knew it all along."

"Oh, devil woman. I think it's lovely you match your dress to your horns."

"And your suit does not show the blackness of your heart?"

"I wish my horse had the speed of your tongue, I should be able to ride from here to London in barely a day." There it was. The ease of exchange they'd spent months discovering. A momentary silence settled between them.

"Do you prefer it like this?" She enquired, her tone suddenly serious as she peered up at him tentatively. He looked down, confused.

"Like what?"

"You know… Bickering. Masking whatever we really think and feel with this pointless attempt at conversation." Had she gone too far? The cracks in her porcelain exterior were beginning to show. Matthew was one thing, but what if they continued to break, letting the vicious glances and sadistic rumours seep in?

She was sure he was going to make a snide remark about how he'd never seen her so caring, but instead he just turned around, away from her, put down his glass and, returned to face her.

He took her slender hand in his, and looked deep into her eyes. He could see past that cracking exterior. Past the dress and the hair and the mask of convention.

"I think it's the bickering that's important. I think it shows how we really feel more than anything. I mean, if we can survive fifteen minutes at each other's throats, normal conversation will be a breeze." His eyes flicked towards the great oak doors. People stood crowded in between them, gossiping and passing judgement, letting their stale opinions sink into the crowd, nestling in the weaknesses and insecurities. No. Not there, he thought.

Instead, he slipped in the other direction, guiding Mary invisibly through the dancers. They came to a small door with no handle, which he pushed gently at the top corner, and they slid through. They were in a small store room full of wine and extra cutlery, which reflects what little light passed through the high window around the room, letting it bounce of the ceiling and walls and criss-cross over itself again and again. It was infinitely more beautiful than the chandeliers or vast arrays of candles in the adjacent room could ever strive to be.

"Better?" Matthew asked. Mary cast her eyes about the room, letting her hand drift through the shafts of light, as if trying to catch it.

"Yes…" She faltered. "How did you find this?" She leaned against a wooden cabinet and kicked off the uncomfortable shoes she had forced her feet into. Relief, at last.

"I had to escape one night after dinner," - Mary chuckled softly, - "and I just stumbled upon it. Every time I come in here the light it slightly different. It's like…" He paused, casting around for an appropriate comparison. "Well that's just it I suppose. I don't know what it's like."

"It's like nothing I've ever seen before." She finished quietly.

Suddenly, he stepped towards her, and put one arm around her waist, and took her hand with the other. He started to hum, grinning.

"Matthew, what are you doing?", she giggled, squirming. "I thought we agreed against the dancing. For the good of everyone involved!" She added.

"Ah, but I do recall that your argument was "in order to spare us the embarrassment". But look around," he gestured to the room devoid of people, "There is no one to be embarrassed in front of. Unless, of course, you're afraid the silverware has higher expectations."

She had no reply. Somewhere above her right ear, the humming resumed itself, and before she knew it she was being whisked across the stone floor.

_Maybe this is it , _she thought. With him, her exterior cracks and she doesn't mind. He knew what was under there anyway. He'd known what she was really like for a long time, and not passed judgement, or thrown his opinions in her path to trip her up as she attempted to stumble on with life. With him, she couldn't help it. Even in this freezing store cupboard, she felt her marble mask melt away under his gaze.

She forgot everything.

She forgot the cold that bleed into her feet as his breath fell warm on her neck.

She forgot the strands of hair that struggled out of their restraints and cascaded down her back as he whispered into her ear.

She forgot the situation she had been forced inexorably into as his words reached her consciousness.

"You're like nothing I've ever seen before."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Title is a song title by Lords Of The New Church, chapter title is a song by Modern English (both of which have amazing covers by Nouvelle Vague. Seriously. Look them up. Go. Now. I promise you won't regret it). Hope you enjoyed, Review please - They make me happy! **


	2. Heart of Glass

**A/N: I forgot to put a disclaimer on the last chapter, so here it is: I do not own Downton Abbey and I bow down to the eternal greatness that is Julian Fellowes. No copyright infringement intended.**

* * *

><p><span>Heart of Glass<span>

Holding her head aloft, Edith strode into the ballroom, the carpeted staircase softening the blow of what was about to come. They'd all be waiting for her. She hadn't seen Mary all evening, and Sybil was still having her hair done. Emerging at the railing, she glanced expectantly down at the crowd of joyful dancers.

None looked up.

The musicians carried on playing, the guests carried on laughing and talking, their champagne glasses clutched in their hands like extensions of their arms. Why did none of them notice? _Because you're not important, _replied a little voice in the back of her head. She desperately tried to ignore it.

She swept down the staircase taking care to lift up her feet and keep herself tall. Staring at the dancers as she went, their smiles began to blur into each other, resembling a constant grimace that stretched its way menacingly around the room. Passion and love and excitement spun around in silk and satin, but she knew it would only last until the end of the night.

Edith was not like that. She knew the ease with which people fell in and out of love. The anger, the spite and remorse which flickered left, right and centre throughout the marriages they tried to hold on to. She was consistent. She found something she wanted and stuck at it. Mary had never loved Patrick. She'd barely cared for him. Edith had loved him with all her heart, and damn those who knew and thought it improper.

She was vaguely aware of a man swimming into her peripheral vision. One Sir Geoffrey of Monmouth. A pleasant fellow, with whom one could maintain a decent conversation.

"Sir Geoffrey, how delightful." She exclaimed, beginning for the evening the employment of her light-and-conversational tone of voice. It got far too much work for her liking.

"Indeed my dear Lady Edith, it's been too long. Would you do me the honour of dancing the next with me?"

Edith was not fickle, but even so, those words had the annoying habit of making her happy. She knew that they shouldn't – they were just words, after all – but all the same…

"Of course, it would be my pleasure. Tell me, how have you been? And your family?"

She dutifully filed through the pleasantries, asking after his mother, how fared their estate, and whether that "exquisite little rose bush still grew on the pavilion?" That's all they were really, these balls. A list of questions that one asks and already knows that answer to. And yet, she anticipated them so much. Always let herself believe that the next would be different, that someone would come along who made her truly happy.

This dance. With this dance she would dance and forget everyone else and the swathes of colour that surrounded her would melt until they were gone entirely. She remembered dancing with Patrick, and how she had closed her eyes and let him guide her around the room, sinking into his arms as they went until she'd forgotten where her hands stopped and his started. Her eyes flicked to Geoffrey as she realised he was still talking, and she observed his smooth jaw, and the way his hands bent and flexed animatedly while he spoke. Of course, she got on awfully well with Geoffrey. Awfully well indeed.

The music came to a gentle halt and, as the last chord sat suspended in the air and the dancers clapped politely, Geoffrey extended his hand to her expectantly. She grasped it, relishing in his strong grip, and let herself be lead onto the floor. People organised themselves, convention snapping at their heels. And before she knew it, she was being whisked around the floor in his arms. She remembered the feel of Patrick's hand on her shoulder, and his eyes on hers, and… But this was not Patrick. Geoffrey' grip on her shoulder was too tight, and his eyes were elsewhere - looking at the prettier girls, no doubt. She followed his gaze over her shoulder and saw, for the first time all evening, Sybil.

Always Sybil.

Sybil in midnight blue, the nape of her neck and her flawless skin that adorned her back holding every pair of eyes in the room.

Sybil smiling, laughing, happy.

Suddenly Edith felt like she was about to suffocate. Still looking over her shoulder, Geoffrey pulled her closer to him, and she fought every urge in her body shouting at her to run away. He trod on her foot, just once, and she stumbled slightly. Of course, no one noticed, as their attention still rested on Sybil.

His hand in hers felt hot and clammy, and the twirling made her head spin manically. The colours leaked into one another and confused her vision. It was all too much.

It wasn't how it was meant to be at all.

Not a moment too soon, the last note graced her ears and Edith staggered off to the edge of the room. If Geoffrey had noticed her swift departure then he showed no sign of it, and, the weight of her rapid breaths tightening her chest, she sank down into a chair.

Rest. At last.

* * *

><p>It might have been minutes or hours, it was hard to tell, but a faint cough snapped her out of her reverie. A good looking sort of man whom she did not recognise was peering down, concerned.<p>

"Lady Edith, isn't it?" She nodded. "Are you quite all right?"

"Yes, of course." She replied without thinking. _Here we go again_, she thought. _Societies conventions invade our lives._ "The music and the people left me a little light headed, I'm afraid. I'm sorry, but I confess I don't remember…" She trailed off, uncertain how to ask his name without sounding rude.

"Samuel Atwood. My father owns the Hanworth estate. Not that such trivial things as family relations give me any rights of grandeur, I should add." A grin christened his features, and Edith sat up straighter. Maybe she had been too quick to judge tonight's assembly. Not everyone could be judged on the dancing proficiencies of Geoffrey, after all.

"A pleasure, Mr Atwood." She greeted him, standing up and offering her hand.

"Please, I insist upon Samuel. Such formalities give me a headache. And do not trouble yourself, in your present condition." He added, gesturing the chair behind her, and settling himself on one to her right.

"I can assure you there is nothing wrong with my present condition. You make me sound as if I could be eighty years old – I was merely a trifle overwhelmed. I assure you I'm quite alright now." And, oddly enough, it was true. With Samuel beside her and the prospect of a heartening conversation, her mood had rapidly improved.

"I'm glad. I was wondering, actually, if I could dance with…" His eyes scanned the room. _He's trying to notice how long until the next dance_, she noted. _I should be glad to dance with him. _And somewhere deep inside her consciousness she knew that a dance with him would be wonderful, and every memory of Geoffrey would disappear.

But.

"…With Lady Mary, but I'm afraid I can't see here anywhere. You haven't happened to spot her, have you?" Her heart drowned in the effort of keeping an impassive expression.

"No. I haven't. So sorry." All false tones of voice gone.

"I was fortunate enough to make her acquaintance at the Haversham ball, and I haven't seen her since…" The rest of his sentence was lost in the sea of people as he walked across the room to hunt Mary down.

Always Mary.

Edith was too disheartened even to sigh, or sink her head in her hands, or send scornful looks at Samuel's retreating back. Because it wasn't really him she was angry at, not really. Nor Sybil and Mary. Well, actually yes Sybil and Mary, but most of all she wanted to kick herself for doing the same as she did every time. Someone showed the slightest bit of interest and her imagination ran wild. _This time it'll be different. This time it'll be like it was with Patrick. This is it._ But it never was.

And. Of course. That niggling feeling would never leave her, that perhaps, just perhaps, it hadn't been like that even with Patrick.

There. She'd said it. Finally.

Loss and Time and Retrospect can do cruel things to memories. They can change them without even noticing they're doing so. And the memory they create can be so twisted and broken in its impossible, unachievable beauty that nothing can ever compare. And, in fact, nothing ever did.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Edith was really hard to write, so I hope this turned out okay. Title is a song by Blondie, another one with a Nouvelle Vague cover. Please review – more of my happiness rests on reviews than is probably healthy!**


	3. Escape Myself

**Disclaimer: I do not own Downton Abbey or any of the characters. If I did, I would make the DVD cheaper and the Christmas special longer. **

**A/N: Sorry this one took so long to emerge – I hate exam revision. I hope it lives up to expectations! Please read, enjoy and review.**

Escape Myself

Sybil drifted elegantly through the great mahogany doors, waves of midnight blue silk crashing to the floor behind her. Eyes turned from every direction, marvelling at the errant yet impossibly beautiful strands of hair that had escaped her elaborate hairstyle, at the simple black necklace just brushing her breastbone, at the great expanse of opalescent skin coating her back, curving slightly as she turned to scan the room.

Beautiful.

It was the word teetering on everyone's lips.

In their eyes rested their judgements of the men and women dressed in finery, hiding their secrets in swathes of grandeur. They spied on each other and gossiped and had opinionated debates about this and that and how could he possibly have chosen such a bow tie?

But _she_ was not pondering on the daring shade of so and so's dress, or whether him and her really were engaged. Sybil looked around the room and the only thing she could notice was the ridiculous expense of the whole evening. Such wealth and grandeur collected in one room - on display, as if in a museum - while people outside barely scraped enough together to feed their families.

She descended the steps, and the crowd below parted immediately in front of her to let her through. All difficulties dissolved in front of her, and sealed themselves up in her wake. That's how it must have looked, anyway.

In fact, the beautiful façade she'd spent so long creating was proving difficult to maintain. One foot in front of the other, she continued on, slowing her eyes down from their fleeting movements around the room. Carefully, they circled the walls, looking for a door to the silence of the outside world, to freedom, and to _reality_. Inside that house, it wasn't real. People there were all beautiful and rich and accomplished. They spoke French and took trips to London to buy new dresses and were all so normal. So horrendously normal and identical to one another. It wasn't a true representation of the world. People in there might have liked to think it was, but it wasn't. There were none of the odd characters Sybil came across in her charity work, who, despite being a few cogs short, made the day more exciting. The clientele present believed they were beautiful, but what about the beauty of spontaneity and simplicity? The very concept was lost on them.

Not with Tom, though.

He realised that one didn't need grand pianos and a new frock for every day of the season to be happy. Just because someone's been brought up in a certain way, that didn't mean they couldn't leave that life and still not be just as happy.

Why must her father be so intolerable?

In truth, Sybil was scared. She was scared that she would snap: During a three course meal with granny when someone complained about the condition of the silver, or during a dress fitting when her mama spent over an hour deciding between two identical looking gowns, or, maybe, during a ball just like this one when she looked around and despaired about the unnecessary wealth on display, purely for the sake of it.

A scene played out in her head as if she were at the theatre, watching it unfold yet unable to do anything about it. She could see herself stopping stock still, looking around her fearfully, her heart a pulsating rock somewhere deep in the back of her throat, and a sickening dryness taking over her mouth. Her hands clammed up on the satin of her dress and a single bead of sweat traced its way down her back. This quasi-her in her head spun around on the spot and started to panic – an angry, rebellious sort of panic, like she couldn't believe what she was seeing and how long it had taken her to react. And suddenly she flew from the spot, knocking over dancers and conversationalists in her haste to be rid of the greed infection that spread around the room.

No.

And yet.

She was afraid she would snap. She hated this place, this stifling oppression disguised under the cloak of affluence, but she couldn't deny the excitement she felt at a new dress, or a beautiful necklace. She quickly remembered, of course, the injustice and the inequality that surrounded them, but did she really have any right to look on it all like that? Sometimes she was truly ashamed at her own superficiality. So ashamed it made her want to shout out loud, to stamp her feet, to run away…

It was so _loud. _Where was the silence? She craved the silence.

Deep breath. She inhaled, exhaled, and contorted her assortment of features into something that resembled a smile, and beckoned that sparkling glint that people seemed to love so much to her eyes. People always seemed under the delusional impression that one's eyes express true emotion, but if you can lie with all other features, why not eyes?

She composed herself, and let a young gentlemen approach her. Determined not to make this insufferable for no reason, she let her mind wonder off to where she'd be in a couple of hours. She'd already planned it all out. While Anna had meticulously styled her hair, Sybil had been scrupulously calculating the amount of time she had to stay in the ballroom before she could sneak out to where she really wanted to be.

She let her consciousness slip away to the deepest, darkest quiet corner of her mind, and let that charm and grace impressed upon her since childhood take over. She didn't have to think about when to smile modestly or laugh or tilt her head to one side innocently. She didn't really have to be here for the next few dances. That shell, dressed up in a long blue gown and an intricate hairstyle, that people had come to call Sybil, could deal with that all on its own.

And so she danced and laughed and swayed this way and that with various eligible yet forgettable young men who had the good nature to approach her.

And finally, it came. She knew she'd fulfilled her duty. She could see Edith sitting in a chair at the side of the room, obviously worn out by the splendour and excitement of the evening. Mary was nowhere to be seen, although a tiny door slightly ajar in one corner did leave Sybil wondering – especially as Matthew was curiously absent as well.

Her eyes located the door that lead outside. They did not move from it as she picked her way across the room, avoiding the path and gaze of her assessors. Having set her heart on escaping, she let nothing get in her way.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Over and over, until…

And she got there. Her hands hit the latch, fumbled around for a couple of seconds, before it gave way under her frustration, and she spilt out onto the gravel, blue silk cushioning her blow, preventing her from harm.

The door swung shit behind her, muffling the voices and music of the ball. The sound of silence fell on her ears like a long awaited dream, wrapping her in its impossible embrace.

She stumbled up, almost running, and skulked around the side of the building to the garage. But she held her head high. She may be hiding, but that was for Tom's safety, not because of any kind of shame. She was not ashamed of what she was doing. She did it proudly – for once it was her own decision, rather than something thrust upon her by the constraints and expectations of her class. As for this? Class be damned. She loved him and that was all there was to it.

She arrived at the garage, and pushed open the door a crack. She could see him, bent over the car and scrubbing diligently at a front headlight. He was in overalls that hung around his waist, and a grubby white vest. At the tiny creak of the door, he whirled around.

Always on his guard.

He took a step towards her, and his face cracked into the sweetest smile she'd ever seen.

"My lady?" He offered, hand outstretched, a mischievous grin caressing his face. Sybil sidestepped into the room and a tiny giggle escaped her lips as he grasped her hand and stretched his other arm around her waist.

"Please, Tom," she laughed, squirming, "I thought I'd just escaped all that!"

"Worried I'll get your dress dirty?" The teasing note to his voice was a relief from the stiff conversation she'd left behind.

"You know I don't care for such things."

"Well then…" And before she knew it he'd spun her around and tipped her over, catching her before she hit the bonnet of the car. She knew there would be oil marks all over her back from the evidence of hard work which stained his hands, but in that moment, she couldn't care less. It was so quiet, there in the tiny garage. No music or gossip or expectations. Just incredible quiet.

Very slowly, and very, very deliberately, he took his index finger and stroked it down her jaw, leaving a black mark as if in proof that they really were together, finally. He kissed her softly on the cheek, setting alight a kind of fire that spread across her face, reaching her features and making them too ablaze with happiness.

His face was inches from hers, and she let herself rest back onto the car, taking his face in her hands.

"You can't imagine how I longed to leave."

"You did leave. You're here. Now. That's all that matters." He pulled her back up to a standing position and swung them both around, settling her against his hip. She let her head loll onto his shoulders. He was right. She was here. It was just…

"I'll have to go back though, won't I? I'll have to go back and choose a dress for the next one and sit patiently while they shove every suitable bachelor in my path and we discuss them politely over lavish dinners. I'll have to just go along with it. Like every time before." She turned and looked deep into his eyes. "I don't want to go back." For the second time tonight, she felt the unmistakeable sensation that fear was tapping her on the shoulder, and once she turned round there would be nothing to stop it.

She shivered, as if her bare skin had only just noticed the cold. Tom pulled her closer and kissed her cheek once more.

"One day. One day we'll leave." His voice was devoid of hope or passion or sentimentality. Only determination lingered there.

Her voice mirroring his, she said, "And the knowledge of that day is the one thing that will keep me putting one foot in front of the other."

Having confessed their plans to the night, they stood there for some time, letting it surround them and convincing them of its silence in keeping their secret. The sound of silence would keep them going.

**A/N: There we go, all done now. I hope you enjoyed it! Title for this chapter comes from a song by The Sound, with (as I'm sure you're starting to guess by now) a Nouvelle Vague cover. Thank you to all previous reviewers. Now go on, review this one! The button is just there. Just there. So close… Please? Thanks.**


End file.
